


I will not say do not weep

by Beleriandings



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen, Grief, Post-Abhorsen/pre-Goldenhand, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:46:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the binding of Orannis, Lirael spends some time recuperating at Abhorsen's House. But with her grief, the memories of Astarael linger, and her thoughts begin to turn once again towards the dry well in the rose garden...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will not say do not weep

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Lirael + Grieving

The chains rattled as Lirael finished laying the opening marks into the metal, pooling to the ground at the sides of the trapdoor down into the dark.

Not for the first time, Lirael wondered what she thought she was doing. What she hoped to achieve, by returning this way, to the ancient well tucked away in the rose garden. She thought about it but found no answers - at least none that she wanted to examine any more than she wanted to walk the path that lay ahead - so she pushed the thoughts away again as she cast a new spell to shift the heavy trapdoor. At least magic came almost as easily as it always had, though she missed being able to draw marks out of the Charter two-handed.

The door was too heavy for her to simply push aside on her own, unaided by magic. She could have asked for help, she knew; Sam was here, and Sabriel, for a time, though Touchstone and Ellimere had already departed for Belisaere. Out of all of them, she knew Sam was the one she should have told, and probably even _could_ have brought herself to tell, but still she had remained silent. Sam had other things on his mind, and his own healing to do.

Still, she knew that she should probably have at least told _someone_ where she was going, lest she not return. The knowledge of that tugged at her conscience even as the smell of rosemary and amaranth curled about her, bringing back memories that she really would have rather forgotten.

And yet at the same time, she could not get them out of her mind. That was why she was here, really. And Lirael knew that if she had so much as told anyone what she was doing, then they would only try to stop her.

Perhaps rightly, too; she was painfully aware of how close she had come to death the last time she had made this journey, then in desperation, with lack of alternative, and lack of knowledge of the true peril that lay beneath the ground. This time though, she did know what she was facing, and now she had a family of her own too, and a duty to them and to the Kingdom; it was hard to admit, but she felt reckless, selfish even.

(More times than she could count, she had wished to ask the Dog for her advice, or failing that, at least feel the comfort of fur and Charter marks beneath her fingers, a rough tongue licking her face. Yet, of course, her friend was no longer there, and each time Lirael realised that anew was like a blade’s twist in her heart.)

Still, there was no help for it; the call was strong enough that she had to take the risk. Her path, she felt, was set; all she had to do was walk along it.

Ever since she had returned to Abhorsen’s House several days ago - a mere waypoint on the return journey from Ancelstierre - she had felt the call of this place. Her nights were long, interminable stretches of grief and nightmares, these days, where she cradled the stump of her right wrist, waking up with burning sharp tears drying on her face, or sometimes simply lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling for hours and hours, until the morning light began to seep through the windows and the sendings came bustling silently in to rouse her.

She hated those long, silent, empty nights much more than the horrors that chased their way through her fragmented dreams.

Yet overall, there was something else. A presence, very subtle in the back of her mind, but familiar as a face from the past, or a half-remembered dream. On Lirael’s better nights, her recurring dream of the cool hand on her forehead - her mother’s hand, the only thing she remembered of Arielle - would return, but now it was subtly different, its edges laced with the twisting herbal fragrance of rosemary and amaranth. It was even enough to make her wonder if it had been that way all along, though she was almost sure it never had before.

Then there was the call.

When they had first stepped back onto the island, she found her mind kept slipping to the covered well, in the quiet corner of the rose garden where she now stood, her feet still planted in the grass in momentary indecision. She knew - in her rational mind - that she should fear this place. After all, the last time she had been here, she would have been killed if not for the Dog, swept away into Death by no power of maliciousness particularly, but simply by a strength and a grief so great that she had felt its tears could wash all the world clean, the better to start anew.

That was what Astarael’s power truly meant, Lirael knew now. But now she had felt that power herself, let it flow through her and be embodied by her as one of the Seven. For a brief time, she had become a living conduit for that great tide of tears, and had been fully expecting it to subsume her too. Had wanted that, even, had felt it a low price to pay for the binding and breaking of Orannis.

But though Orannis had been bound, Lirael remained, the Dog swept inexorably into Death in her place.

And now, apparently, that presence had become graven on her heart and mind, and she could not ignore it any longer.

She took a deep breath, running her fingers very gently over the leather pouches of the bell bandolier she had buckled on - just in case - as she had stolen out of the house, and then lowered herself carefully down into the well, feeling for the cast-iron rungs of the ladder.

(She had not brought any sword with her, as she had known that that would never save her where she was going. Only the bells, though Lirael did not think them likely to help much either. Still, she found it a comfort to have their weight on her chest - perhaps that was simply another part of becoming an Abhorsen, she thought with a wry smile. Perhaps if she did die, the bells would identify her bones for future travellers of that path, joining those of Kalliel, the Abhorsen who had dared that way long ago. With that, she had been about to leave. But at the last moment, before Lirael stole out of her room, she had picked up the little soapstone statuette of a dog that stood on her bedside table and slipped it into her pocket. It made her feel at least a little better.)

This time, as she began the climb down the well, she was expecting the sealing of the trapdoor behind her in a rattle of chains. But it still sent a renewed flicker of apprehension through her as she was plunged into blackness. Somehow, the dark made this seem more real. When she had toyed with this plan, she had almost been viewing it as something someone else might do, merely a theoretical exercise, to be put into practice only at greatest need. Still, all alone with the darkness pressing in on her, it felt very real. She conjured a quick Charter light - relieved to note that for the moment at least, the Charter’s endless flow felt as strong and present as ever - and wished, despite herself, for the Disreputable Dog. That line of thinking hurt though, so she resolutely pushed the thought of her friend from her mind once more and began to climb down.

Climbing was more difficult one-handed, she quickly noticed. That made her think of Sam, and his enthusiasm for making her a new hand, a task he had thrown himself into as though it was the only thing that mattered. For her part, Lirael would have settled for anything she could use, but he insisted every detail must be exquisite, perfectly designed. She did not begrudge him that, though. She could manage with one hand well enough for now.

Sam would have probably have come with her if she’d asked him to, she knew. Of course, this was exactly why she had not asked him, or even told him she was coming here, just to be on the safe side. Sam was happier now, she knew; it showed in everything he did, in his very demeanour. His time was mostly consumed by his work on Lirael’s new golden hand, and that intellectual and technical challenge was helping him immeasurably in the wake of all that had happened.

And beside, she had seen how their first foray into the well had shaken his resolve, perhaps even more than her own. She had no wish to subject him to that all over again, not for some fancy of her own.

Still, part of her did wish Sam was here too. She had grown to trust and love her nephew, relying on his presence and company in a way she had hardly ever relied on anyone before.

_Except of course -_

_No. Not now._

Even Mogget’s presence, complete with sarcastic comments, would have been welcome, she thought as her light bobbed overhead and the rungs passed beneath her, disappearing into darkness both above her and below. Yet of course Mogget was gone too; besides, the last time he had come here, he too had only barely been allowed to leave.

Her musings were interrupted as she reached the bottom of the well’s shaft.

The strike of her foot against stone surprised her, as she thought the climb had taken longer last time. Still, she was never sure of her memories of this place. Time had been strange, on that dark journey, and she didn’t trust her recollection of it.

 _Time and Death sleep side by side_.  

The Dog’s words rang in her mind as she ventured into the cavern she remembered. Not that there was much about it to remember; it was a little warmer here still, and dryer than it should be at the bottom of the well, and the smell of rosemary and amaranth was stronger, but apart from that, this place had no real distinguishing features. She frowned. Her Charter light seemed no dimmer than it had been, yet still it seemed to pierce the darkness strangely little, affording her a sphere of golden light only just large enough to light the ground at her feet, though she could see only blackness above her and to either side.

She knew where she was though; she had been here before, after all. It was not long before she was coming up against the little pile of dusty bones and bright bell-metal that marked where Abhorsen Kalliel of long ago had died. Before, she had been afraid, though she had had less reason to than she did now. But this time, on impulse, Lirael knelt down beside the remains, running her fingers across the surface of the bone.

Nothing happened, but then she had not expected it to.

Lifting the skull cautiously, she simply stared into the eye sockets for a long while, just thinking. She wondered, a little, who this Kalliel had been in Life. Laying down the skull carefully, she sighed, and rose to her feet. Closing her eyes for a moment, she reached into the Charter and drew out the marks she wanted. Marks for cleansing, for purification, for finishing and final endings. Marks for fire, blooming at her fingertips before she laid them over the pile of bones. They caught and raced the length of where the body had been, like no natural fire would. She felt some resistance to the spell - perhaps the lingering memory of the Free Magic that had undoubtedly killed Kalliel, but it was nothing of too much consequence. After a moment, the fire had burned down to nothing, and all that was left was the glint of bell-metal amongst the ashes.

“Rest now” whispered Lirael. She had never known this Abhorsen - her own ancestor - who had dared this path so long ago, yet Kalliel deserved a final ending; everyone did.

After a moment, Lirael carried on walking, her Charter light bobbing still above her head. She supposed that if nothing else came from this journey beneath the ground, she had at least let one spirit pass the Ninth Gate in peace.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the passage narrowing, the walls beginning to take on the strange, unearthly sheen she remembered from before. She frowned. Her light was dimming, and that set her on edge, but still, she knew that now she was here she could not turn back. Or perhaps she could still turn back, but nothing would have changed. She would still feel the compulsion, the restlessness, her thoughts turning always towards the well, towards that presence imprinted within her.

Could she feel running water about her ankles, very slightly? She was not sure that it wasn’t just her imagination, memories of her last foray down into this tunnel making her mind paint the darkness with images she could not quite look at, only see out of the corners of her eyes. But then again, that was exactly how it had been before. She stared straight ahead. Her Charter light was dimming, she realised with an uncomfortable combination of nervousness and anticipation. The Dog was not here to help her now, to draw her back and send her running. _And this was how it had begun last time, this was how they had nearly been swept into that cold river for good, deep underground where the Charter didn’t exist to reign in the chaos, and no one would ever find her_ …

She swallowed hard, face setting in determination. She had faced worse than this, hadn’t she? She opened her mouth, her voice trembling a little at first even as her hand twitched instinctively to her bells. “A-Astarael!” she called, into the darkness, even now feeling something of a fool, her voice weak and human. She tried, only half-consciously, to assume the timbre of the Clayr when they declaimed their solemn words of prophecy, clear and portentous, laden with fate. “Hear me! I am Lirael, Abhorsen and Remembrancer, D…Daughter of the Clayr, and I would speak to you!”

Nothing. Lirael listened for seven whole seconds; the time seemed interminably long, and she might have guessed it hours if she had not counted.

Then her light went out.

Still there was no sound, but as her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, she could make out the pale river at her feet, like a ghostly after-image. She steeled herself, forcing her hand into stillness, and walked forward into the illusory current.

Still, she was entirely alone. Even as she walked, thoughts of going back flickered through her mind, but she pushed them away before they were fully formed. This, she quickly realised, was the most alive she had felt since the downfall of Orannis. This had significance. This meant something.

“Astarael!” she began again, reaching out with her senses into the darkness. “I know you’re here! I… I want to speak to you!”

“ _Go back, child_.”

Even though she had been speaking in the hope of a response, she supposed she had not really expected to get one. When she did, it startled her, sending an electric frisson up her spine. The warm scent of rosemary and amaranth grew stronger, but now it was twined with the subtlest touch of the hot metal tang of Free Magic. The voice itself was strange, inhuman, coming from no mouth but merely seeping its way into her mind. Though it sounded nothing like it, it put her in mind of the Binding, the song of the Eight, the song of the world, or at least some trace of it. Once more, it made her want to weep, or to shuck her body, plunge into Death and open her arms in joy to the stars of the Ninth Gate, tears on her face as she was lifted to a final Death…

 _No_. She shook her head; banishing that notion. She knew now that it was not her time. Instead, she steadied herself against the ghostly current that she was still not quite sure she had not imagined, and spoke again, her voice cracking a little.

“I was… ah… I want to speak with you…” she hesitated. How did one address a Shiner, even a long-leftover ghost of one? The last time she had faced Astarael, she had been running for her life and had said nothing at all, so that was no help. _Then there was Mogget_ … but as soon as Mogget had been revealed as who he truly was - _Yrael, the Eighth_ \- he had been lost to her, spiralling free from his bonds at a command from Sabriel, as Lirael lay shocked and wounded on the ground. That time was difficult for her to remember properly; all had been a whirl of pain and ash and voices speaking above her, overwhelming her. And through it all, all she could think about was the Dog. Her greatest friend, now gone where Lirael could not - must not - follow.

Still, the Dog had been a Shiner too; Kibeth, the third. Lirael still struggled with that, though she supposed that on some level she had known for a long while before the Dog had offered herself up as one of the binders of Orannis, revealing who she truly was. It fit; it made sense. And yet she still found it nearly impossible to reconcile with her view of the Dog, a kind and loving friend, her greatest protector and the one who had kept her alive and led her through the dark moments, before Lirael had found her true place in the world. The Dog had taught her that though she had not the Sight of the Clayr, she was still valuable, still important. The Dog had given her someone to hold close when the nights got the better of her, and kept her exploring and wandering. When she had fought Orannis, finally stepping onto the path she must walk, the Dog - _Kibeth_ \- had walked at her side, every step of the way.

But not anymore. Now Lirael had to make her own way, and though she had others to help her along it, the thought still frightened her more than she could say.

But now was not the time for fear. With her one remaining hand, Lirael reached into her pocket and brushed her fingers against the soapstone snout of the little dog statuette. The touch alone brought her some comfort, and enough courage to speak once more.

“Astarael! For that is who you are, is it not?”

A long silence. “…… _Once, perhaps. Before all the world was changed and the greater part of what I once was was given up, in the binding and the breaking and the remaking. In the great dance of marks, the Charter, and in the bright tears of this world for its Dead_.”

“But you _are_ the relict… aren’t you? You are all that is left in this world of the Seventh.”

Another long pause. “…….. _Why have you come? You little ones, you fear for your lives. Your world is not here. Go back, my child, before the waters take you, and your small, fragile body drowns in me_.”

Lirael took a breath, steadying herself once more against the effect of that voice. “I cannot turn back yet. I have come… on your summons.”

“ _I know not of what you speak_.”

“I think you do. I…” it was hard for her to say. “Orannis - ” Lirael felt the air thicker and roil at the mention of the name, pain tearing through her chest and the Charter mark on her forehead as this being - Astarael - twitched in agitation. “…The Ninth has been bound. I…” she took another deep breath, gripping the Dog’s statuette harder. “I stood for you in the Binding. I… wept the song of the world, and your power was in me.”

The air tightened closer about her, and Lirael suddenly spluttered and choked as the very air seemed to thicken in her lungs, writhing and twisting. The darkness around her seemed to spark with wrath. “ _Then you should have been consumed! You should have let it take you, as I gave myself in the beginning!_ ”

Lirael felt a renewed pang of guilt, amid the dizziness that had come on her as the darkness thickened. “…….I know. The -” she stopped herself, biting her lip to keep the tears away. “K-Kibeth. She saved me, pulled me back at the last.” She could barely breath, let alone speak. _This had all been a terrible mistake,_ she realised in panicked horror, _she was going to die here beneath the earth_ … _how could she have ever thought herself strong enough to reason with this being of the beginning, to talk to her like an equal? To try to find solace here, even. It was mere arrogance, and now she would pay with her life_. All Lirael could do was let the words spill from her. “Please! Please stop! Sh-She was a friend t-to… to you too, wasn’t she? For… ah… for her sake, please… listen…. stop… she saved me…”

As suddenly as it had begun, the writhing of the air stopped, and Lirael dropped to her knees, sucking in a great breath. For a while, all was silent, and Lirael might have thought that Astarael had disappeared, if she could not sense that great and powerful presence so close.

Finally that voice spoke again. “ _Yes. I see now_.” The voice was one of immeasurable sorrow.

“You… you do?”

“ _You are grieving, child_.”

Lirael blinked. Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes once more. “…Yes.”

“ _And that is why you came_.”

“I…” suddenly, she did not know what to say. “I came because I felt… I felt I had to…” she blinked, her eyes suddenly awash with tears she had not realised were there. In fact she was almost certain they had not been there, a moment before. “I think… a part of you r-remained behind when…” she broke off. She had not known where those words had come from, but, she realised, they might well be true.

Still, she did not finish her sentence. Instead she gasped, all words falling from her mouth, as a shape appeared before her, a shape she had only seen once before. A tall, pale-glowing figure of a woman, elongated and distorted by the tears in her eyes. Astarael. The smell of rosemary and amaranth twisted all around her, holding her in place. Not that she could have moved anyway; she felt transfixed, held fast by some magic far too great to even think of struggling again. Lirael looked and looked, still kneeling on the ground, until she felt the image of that bright figure imprinted on her very eyes themselves; if she could close them, she knew, she would still see Her.

Weakly, Lirael drew herself to her feet. She could not stop looking. The last time Lirael had seen this sight had been only a glimpse, as the Dog had spelled her into running for her life with a bark. Now, though, Lirael stood her ground, and looked and looked as the tears ran freely down her face.

A bright, shining hand, reaching out to touch her. Instinctively, Lirael bowed, expecting the touch to meet the crown of her head. But instead, the hand came under her chin, drawing her face up with surprising gentleness. As it did, Lirael felt the crackle of Free Magic race through her once more, and the memories of that day - the day when she had rung the bell Astarael, when she had _become_ the voice of Astarael, if only for a short time - rattled through her with force. Yet still, she stared defiantly up into a blank and inscrutable face with no features, that was now too bright to look at directly.

Tears poured down Lirael’s face as she looked, but she let them, not wiping them away but instead letting them fall, her hand clutching the statuette hard enough to bruise. There were more tears than she had ever cried in her whole life, it seemed, an ocean of tears deep enough to drown in; deeper than the endless depths of the years back to the Beginning of the world.

But oddly, nothing about this felt dangerous; she felt, in fact, entirely safe. She was just thinking this, through her tears, when those bright arms went around her, pulling her close. Instantly, she felt warm, comforted. “A…Astarael…” she choked out, too overcome to say anything more. She could feel a pain in her chest, as though she was slowly being torn apart, and deep inside her mind some part of her screamed that this was too much, that this bright being - though She may not intend to - would consume Lirael, in Her raw power. Astarael was too strong for her, too old, too elemental, and the tears would drown Lirael before long. Some part of her remembered the words of Mogget and the Dog, from not so long ago, the warning about Astarael’s voice. _We had best hope she does not sing_.

Yet sing Astarael did, and her voice wove a melody that made Lirael open her mind, open her heart to receive the wordless, endless, twisting song like a traveller lost in a desert offered sweet water at last. That small, screaming part of Lirael was quickly pushed down as Astarael enclosed her and held her tight in her bright arms, filling Lirael up with a song of indescribable, terrifying sorrow and beauty.

And in that moment, Lirael saw. She needed no Mirror this time, as it seemed Astarael sang the vision into her mind directly. That was the simplest way she found she could describe it later. Still though, seeing was not quite the word for it; rather she felt. Or even, she _was_. She felt what it was like for Astarael to give up herself, to let her being be subsumed by the Charter. To weep for the world’s sorrows down here in the dark. To feel so much, the pain of each tiny human life that burst in brightness in this world, then flicker out. To take that pain on herself, to save them all. To fail, and to fall, and to carry on, the tears leaving her wracked and hollowed out, yet with still an eternity ahead.

She felt all that, her mind merging with that of the Shiner, once again, those arms embracing Lirael and drawing her into her being. Astarael would sweep her up, she knew, would wash her heart clean, her fragile, fractured self not healed but rather swept away, lost in sorrow. And in that moment, that prospect seemed like a kind one, a much-needed reprieve, and she reached for it with eagerness.

Yet even as she did, she felt Astarael’s presence shift, pulling away from her, the song twisting in a rippling, regretful sigh.

“No!” Lirael felt the word fall from her lips, as Astarael drew away in regret, sorrow washing over her anew. “No, no, don’t… don’t leave…”

“ _I must. You must live, little Abhorsen_.”

“I… no, let me…” Lirael barely knew what she was saying, as she reached back to the shining figure, who was fading in regret by the moment. “C-Come back! Don’t leave me behind…”

Astarael’s voice was gentle but firm, full of sorrow, but also full of a strength as deep and inexorable as the swift river’s flow. “ _I must. Let go, Lirael_.”

“I can’t…” she felt tears start in her eyes, once more. “Don’t leave me! P-Please!” Everyone had always left Lirael behind, and even as she had found healing in Astarael’s tears, then it was being taken away. “I need…”

“Y _ou need to return to your family, to the Charter and to the light. I_ …” a touch of vulnerability entering that voice. “ _I cannot give you all of what you seek. I am sorry…. you must return. Let go!_ ”

“Please….”

“ _When you need tears, when you need to weep and to be made anew, I will always be there.”_ A brush of something against her forehead where her Charter mark was, like a soft, sorrowful kiss. _“Let go… let go… let go_ …”

The words echoed in Lirael’s head as she felt something tear within her chest, something seeming to depart from her in a rush of excruciating pain, followed by only nothingness, as the last of the shining figure faded from view. Finally, all strength left her and she fell - as though into deep water - blackness closing over her head.

When she woke, she had no idea how much time had passed. She was conscious first of her own breathing, hitched by sobs, tears whispering down her cheeks as she clutched the statuette close.

 _That had been how she had lain after the Binding_ … for a moment she thought no time at all had passed, and she still lay in the Ancelstierran dust. Odd, she thought vaguely, that this time she seemed to have gone blind and deaf. After another moment though, she realised how little sense there was in this; it was merely dark, and she was not lying on dust, but cold stone. She was all alone, too, with no one bustling about her as they had done before, and she was not injured, save for the now-mostly-healed stump of her wrist, and the ache in her chest, rapidly fading.

She sat up, her head spinning a little as memory began to trickle back. _Astarael… she had been here, and Lirael had been about to let her in, let her subsume her mind, lost in that flow of tears_ … Then a new realisation struck her. _She would have taken me, too, but she stopped herself_.

She thought about this for a long time, sitting all alone in the dark and listening to the quiet stillness, deep below the ground. Whatever had happened here, it had certainly given her much to think on, and she was not quite sure she was the same person after.

After a while, Lirael felt herself longing for some light. Gingerly, she reached into the Charter, drawing out the marks to make a golden glow, growing into a steady globe of yellow illumination that shone down upon her. She had half expected to not be able to do it, but the spell flared bright gold, making her blink a little. It was a comfort, and after that, she felt able to stand, and survey herself, wracking her brains for the fleeting details of what had happened, for it felt almost like a dream now. She remembered enough to know that that had been terribly reckless. _And if Astarael had not released her at the last_ … she shuddered at the thought of what might have happened.

Yet somehow, she did not feel hurt, save perhaps a little bruised where she had fallen. Her heart even felt a little lighter, as though the weight of all the tears she had cried had been taken off it. She levered herself to her feet - and she saw no ghostly river around her ankles, not anymore - and held the statuette up to her face, looking into its carven stone eyes. Even that did not bring her as much pain as it once might have.

“Well, Dog” she said aloud, as she started to walk, back the way she had come this time. “I feel a little better now.” Tears were starting in her eyes again, but now they did not burn; instead they felt cleansing, and she smiled through them, just a little. “Time to go home.”


End file.
